


The Fisherman's Bounty

by fatal_drum



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, appearance from Mikaele Salesa, fairy tale, fisherman Peter, mermaid Martin, mermaid au, mild violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23253559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/pseuds/fatal_drum
Summary: Peter catches something unexpected in his net, and gets more than he bargained for. Martin's never left the sea before.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 27
Kudos: 116





	The Fisherman's Bounty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cuttooth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/gifts).



> Happy belated birthday to @cuttooth! You are a wonderful friend and a true inspiration! I adore you. 
> 
> Many thanks to @willowbilly for betaing this story. <3

Peter catches the creature in a fishing net, of all things. The thing flails and thrashes, splashing water all over Peter and the deck, all while emitting an ear-piercing wail. It looks almost human, with creamy pale skin and strawberry blond curls. The scaled flesh that covers its legs is receding, giving way to smooth, hairless limbs. Its face is round and freckled, with sea-green eyes and a soft, full mouth, at odds with the feral hissing through its bared teeth. Underneath the ferocity, however, is a glimmer of fear. 

“Steady now,” Peter says. “I won’t cut you loose if you’re just going to slit my throat afterwards.”

The thing scowls but ceases moving, as if it understands him. They both watch each other warily as Peter slices through the net and steps back, knife in hand as the creature disentangles itself.

“I...owe you a debt,” the creature says slowly, as if unaccustomed to speaking. 

“Do you?” Peter asks. 

It shrugs, staring at him with sea-glass eyes. “That’s how these things work.”

The words put Peter in mind of his grandmother, who worshiped in the old ways. Raised by the sea, everything with her was signs and portents, omens and blood-oaths. She would have known what to do with the creature, whether to accept its offer or simply throw it overboard. But she is long gone, consigned to the waves as her mother had been, and her mother before her. 

“I see,” Peter says. 

“You may ask a boon of me,” the creature tells him, sitting up. It’s looking more human by the minute. “But choose carefully.”

Peter considers. In his grandmother’s tales, men asked for riches, but he has no use for those. Other men asked for love, or for glory. But all Peter really cares about is his boat, and the sea. 

“I could use help on the  _ Tundra,” _ he says finally. “Stay with me a while, until your debt is paid.”

Peter doesn’t know why he asks. He’s a solitary man, and used to working alone. He doesn’t really need the help. But the creature nods, seemingly satisfied with his request, and the deal is done. 

“What shall I call you?” Peter asks. 

“My name is not a sound that can be made above the water,” the creature says thoughtfully. “But you may call me Martin.”

* * *

Martin proves to be a capable hand, and he can read the wind and tides better than even Peter’s grandmother could. Peter soon learns to take heed when Martin tells him to take another route, or stay in port. Martin's instincts help them avoid countless scrapes. 

Unsurprisingly, Martin proves ignorant of most human customs. For instance, it takes a great deal of convincing before he will wear the clothing Peter lends him. He’s not small, but neither is Peter; he has to cuff the trousers, and the shirt sags off one of his shoulders, which makes him sulk. Food is also an adjustment for Martin, who is used to plucking his food from the sea and eating it raw. He stares in confusion at the knife and fork Peter offers him, though he uses them well enough. Tea quickly becomes a favorite, and Martin takes to brewing it for both of them throughout the day. Peter begins buying more varieties, and watches his reactions to each. 

Whenever Martin gets a chance, he strips off his clothes and plays among the waves. His pale skin never burns, though more freckles break out across his cheeks and shoulders, like wildflowers on a grassy hill. His fins return the moment he hits the water, blue-green scales spreading over his flesh, binding his legs into a powerful tail. Sometimes he dives deep, then rushes back to leap above the surf, body arched in a perfect, shining curve. Other times he splashes Peter, disappearing before he can retaliate. The sea seems to feed Martin somehow, to add a glow to his skin and a sparkle to his eyes. 

But he always comes back. For now, at least.

* * *

“What is that?” Martin asks one night, pointing at the book in Peter’s hands. 

“Stories,” Peter says absently. 

“How?” Martin demands, poking the leather cover with a fingertip. His claws are sheathed like a cat’s, so he doesn’t damage the binding. 

Peter patiently explains letters and writing, and Martin squints at the page as if he could decode it just by staring. The expression puts a little line between his eyes, and Peter is tempted to smooth it with his finger. He doesn't do so. 

“What does it say?” Martin asks. 

So Peter reads to him, a tale of a princess stolen by the king of the sea, trapped beneath the waves for centuries, until a prince comes to set her free and takes her for his bride. Martin listens raptly, sat at Peter’s feet with his legs crossed. 

“Did he love her?” Martin asks. 

“I don’t know,” Peter answers. He’s never really thought of it.

“Then why did he set her free?”

Peter shrugs. “She’s a princess. That’s what one does.”

Martin frowns but doesn’t argue. He doesn’t hide his emotions as men do, giving them free rein of his face. They show in his sea-green eyes and his soft, pink mouth. 

“Tell me another?” Martin asks.

Peter reads to Martin until he looks down and finds him curled up on his side, fast asleep.

* * *

Peter begins teaching Martin his letters, letting him practice after they’ve finished the day’s work. Then Martin invariably asks for another story, or tells one of his own. Martin’s voice is soft and melodic as he tells tales of seafolk who ventured too far onto land, or made deals with things they didn’t understand. Peter finds himself fascinated as much by Martin as the stories. 

One night he catches Martin yawning, and offers to make him a bed. He’s a little embarrassed that he’s let Martin sleep on a hammock for so long, but Martin’s never complained. 

“I could just share yours,” Martin says. “It’s large enough.”

Peter nearly chokes. It’s been a long time since he had anyone as beautiful as Martin in his bed, but Martin’s face is utterly guileless as he makes the offer. 

“That’s...fine,” Peter says. There’s no sense in making the creature a bed anyway, when he might leave at any moment. 

That night, when Peter crawls beneath the covers, Martin joins him. There’s just enough room for them to lie side by side, though Martin’s arm brushes against Peter’s. Peter rolls onto his side, facing the wall. He falls asleep to the sound of Martin’s breathing in his ear, soft and rhythmic. 

In the morning, Peter wakes with Martin sprawled across his chest, his head tucked under Peter's chin. Martin's hair smells like the sea around them, of salt and wild things. 

He should really get up, get started with his morning tasks, but that would mean waking Martin up and acknowledging their position. And Martin looks so peaceful. Instead, Peter shuts his eyes, and drifts off until Martin rolls out of his arms, and he can safely pretend nothing happened. 

Martin returns to his bed that night, and the night after, and Peter grows used to his warmth and weight, and to the scent of the sea in his hair.

They're running out of time, Peter realizes. Martin could consider the debt paid any day now, and return to his home beneath the waves. 

Peter’s been alone before, and he can be alone again. Martin is just an interlude, he tells himself. Peter needs nothing but himself and his boat, and the endless expanse of the sea. 

* * *

Mikaele knows Martin for what he is the moment he lays eyes on him. Peter can tell by his expression, though Mikaele doesn’t say anything until he and Peter are alone in their usual pub. 

“Quite a catch,” Mikaele comments. 

Peter shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. 

"I know quite a few people who would be interested in your little pet,” Mikaele continues. “They'd pay a pretty penny for him. You could ditch that little dinghy of yours—"

"The  _ Tundra _ is  _ not _ a dinghy—"

"—and get yourself a proper ship. One that won't blow away in a stiff wind.” 

Peter rolls his eyes. The  _ Tundra  _ is an old vessel, but steady and reliable. 

Mikaele continues, “You could even buy back your father's estate. What was it? Melville?"

"Moorland," Peter says automatically. 

"Right," Mikaele says, completely uninterested. "The point is, you could have anything you wanted."

Peter can't help but ask, "What would they... _ do _ with him?"

Mikaele shrugs. "I don’t get paid to ask questions. Bed him? Study him? Money's there either way."

Peter is silent as Mikaele withdraws a long, thin silver chain from his satchel. It’s as light and fine as cobwebs, but a firm tug shows it’s much stronger 

"When you're ready, wrap this around him three times. He won't be able to get away after that." Mikaele flashes him a nasty grin. "Won't want to."

"I'll think about it," Peter says, taking the chain.

"Don't think about it too long," Mikaele warns. "There's a lot of folks as could use a prize like that. You don't want anyone less friendly than  _ me  _ coming after him."

If there are people in this world less friendly than Mikaele Salesa, Peter doesn’t want to meet them. 

He pockets the chain and leaves without answering.

* * *

When Peter returns to the boat, Martin is grinning from ear to ear, brandishing a sheaf of paper scraps. 

"I made this!" he says excitedly. 

Peter scans the lines Martin has written in his careful scrawl. The letters look more drawn than written, somehow, though he can't quite work out why.  _ The sea breathes night air, reflecting the stars above, until sea and sky are one, and we are swallowed in their darkness… _

Poetry. Martin's written  _ poetry. _ Peter can't tell if it's good or not—he's never been one for literature—but he can feel Martin in every word. That has to count for something. 

Martin is looking up at him expectantly. 

"I've never read a poem this good," Peter declares, and Martin beams at him. 

"Thank you," Martin says. "Perhaps I'll write one about you."

"I'm not worth writing about.” 

"That's for me to decide," Martin says primly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. 

Martin is standing far too close, crowding Peter against the railing. Peter is acutely aware of their bodies and the narrow space between them. Before he can stop himself, he reaches to tilt Martin’s chin up, leaning down to claim his lips. The kiss is light at first, just the smallest brush of mouths, before Martin sighs and reaches to tangle his hands in Peter’s hair. 

Neither says a word as they deepen the kiss, pressing their bodies close. The sound of their breathing echoes around them. Peter clutches Martin’s shoulders, his waist, his hips, unable to resist squeezing the soft flesh. His lips work down Martin’s jaw to his neck, and Martin makes a startled noise before pulling him closer. 

“Stay with me,” Peter whispers against Martin’s throat. “Be mine.”

At this, Martin pushes him away and smiles at him sadly. “My home is the sea,” he says, “and I can belong to no one but myself.”

He reaches up to kiss Peter once more, gently, before heading to bed. 

The chain weighs heavily in Peter’s pocket. 

* * *

It’s not that Peter would ever sell Martin. He would sooner die than see him in the hands of someone like Salesa, or Magnus and his ilk. 

It’s just something Salesa said:  _ He won't be able to get away after that.  _

_ Won't want to. _

It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? To have Martin forever by his side, and happy to be there? Peter doesn’t know  _ exactly  _ how the chain works, but he has ideas. Even if it doesn’t work, what does Peter have to lose? Only Martin, and that’s coming anyway. 

He imagines a Martin who's hollow and obedient, who doesn't write poems or splash among the waves, and recoils. Perhaps there  _ are  _ worse things.

Peter keeps the chain. There’s no sense in wasting it, after all. In the morning, he wakes up to Martin’s warmth and the smell of sea-salt in his hair, and casts his nets. In the evening, he brings them back in, before going to bed and starting the whole thing over again. Martin is the persistent bright point in his existence. He continues to practice his letters, and brew Peter cups of tea, and help him with the nets. He continues to be bright and wild and beautiful.

* * *

Salesa comes for them in the night, flanked by three dead-eyed mercenaries. Martin is asleep in the cabin, but Peter is not. 

“I’ve given you time, Peter,” Salesa says in a friendly tone. “Now give us the boy.”

“That’s not happening,” Peter growls. 

“You always were an idiot,” Salesa says, shaking his head. He gestures to the mercenaries, and they close in on Peter. 

Peter was never a soldier, but he grew up on the docks, and he knows how to fight dirty. He manages to get his knife into one of them before they know he has it. 

The rest are not as slow; one strikes a blow against the side of Peter’s head, sending him reeling, while the other strikes him hard in the gut. Peter doubles over, staggering away, but one of them grabs him by the hair and forces his head back, punching him again. He spits blood onto the deck, glaring as they seize his knife and hold it to his throat. 

“It’s a shame, Peter,” Salesa says, leaning against the rail. “I always liked you, but business is business.”

No one notices the figure creeping onto the deck until it lashes out with wicked claws, slicing deep furrows in the face of the man holding the knife. The man screams as the figure hurls him over the railing. Martin whirls to face the next attacker, his face is a mask of fury, lashing out with teeth and claws. The third man tries to run. 

He’s too slow. 

Salesa draws a knife of his own, sneering, "They didn't say they needed you in one piece," as he approaches Martin.

Peter doesn't think, he just  _ moves,  _ launching himself at Salesa, and they go down hard. The knife slashes at Peter’s face. He grabs Salesa's wrist, struggling to pin him to the floor, when Salesa  _ bites  _ him. Peter lets go with a curse, and the knife slices across his chest. He’s forced to pull back, and Salesa manages to flip them, slamming Peter's head against the deck. Peter moans in pain as Salesa raises the knife high, aiming for his heart.

He doesn’t get a chance. Martin descends on him with a low growl, pulling Salesa off with surprising strength. Salesa slashes blindly at Martin’s forearm, splattering blood across the deck. Martin howls with pain. His claws slice bloody furrows across Salesa’s cheek. 

“Grab him!” Peter shouts.

Martin snatches Salesa’s wrists, and Peter pulls the chain from his pocket. Recognition dawns on Salesa’s face, and he struggles, but Martin’s grip is like iron. Peter wraps the chain around Salesa’s wrist once, twice, three times, and the defiance fades from Salesa’s eyes—along with everything else. He doesn’t resist when Peter plucks the knife from his hand, just stares blankly ahead. Martin pulls back as if burned. 

“Wh-what did you do to him?” Martin asks.

“Gave him a taste of his own medicine,” Peter says. 

Martin touches Peter’s cheek, and then his jaw, where he can already feel bruises forming. His eyes are damp with tears. “They hurt you,” he says softly. “I’m so sorry.”

Peter shrugs. “Not as bad as they could have.”

“But they were after _ me,” _ Martin insists. 

“You got hurt, too.”

Martin takes hold of Peter’s face with both hands, pulling him down for a hard kiss. “You’re  _ mine,”  _ he says fiercely. “They don’t get to hurt you.”

Peter’s heart is hammering in his chest. He doesn’t want Martin to let go, doesn’t want anything to change, but he knows it has to. 

“You’re not safe here,” Peter says. “There are others like Salesa. They’ll keep coming.”

Martin flinches. “You want me to go.”

“No!” Peter takes Martin’s hands between his own, squeezing tight. “You  _ know  _ what I want. And you said—”

“—that I can’t stay here,” Martin says levelly. “But...what if you came with me?”

* * *

They leave Salesa at the docks, and sail out before dawn to dispose of his henchmen. The sea will take them, as it has countless other souls. Peter walks the length of the _ Tundra,  _ bidding farewell to the first place he could call home, and the last. 

“What shall we do with your poems?” he asks.

“I know them by heart,” Martin says, smiling.

They join hands as they walk to the railing. Martin turns to look at him, his eyes steady and calm. The salt breeze plays with his hair, tousling his thick curls, and Peter smooths them back into place.

“Are you ready?” Martin asks. 

“I’m yours,” Peter says, and that’s answer enough. 

He stares down at the roiling waves, the blue-green of the sea that’s surrounded him his whole life. He has no idea what waits for him beneath, but he has Martin. That’s enough for him. 

They jump together, hand in hand, letting the sea pull them into her embrace. 


End file.
